


if you insist

by verity



Series: use your words, derek [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blindfolds, Bottom Derek Hale, Communication Failure, Consent Issues, Derek Hale Lying About How Many Dudes He's Totally Done This With, Happy Ending, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sensory Deprivation, Top Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:50:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the moment that Derek's been waiting for all this time. He feels strangely peaceful, looking at Stiles's hard face, the curves of his biceps, all the things he never gave himself permission to linger over. If Derek is going to lose whatever this thing is between them, he's going to look and not feel bad about it.</p><p>"I can't tell whether you think that Blue Steel is somehow going to distract me or if there's something on my face," Stiles says.</p><p>"Your face is fine," Derek says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you insist

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: **this fic contains badly negotiated kink! do not try these consent or negotiation practices at home!** I'm not really sure where the line between "communication failure" and "dubcon" is here, but as any explicit verbal consent takes place off-screen in the first section, consider yourself warned for the latter and read according to your own comfort level.

"So, I brought you something." Stiles dangles the thing in question over Derek's face. The end is silky and cool where it trails across Derek's cheek, wide and flat. One time Stiles brought over yards of satin ribbon, a vivid red, and bound Derek's wrists over his head before he wove the rest into the bars of the headboard. The ribbon was nothing Derek couldn't break out of in a second, but he didn't want to—he didn't even try until the end, when he was so out of it he couldn't even tell he was trying to get loose until the ribbon started to give and Stiles paused to secure it. 

"What is it?" Derek says.

Stiles takes a moment to trace the curve of Derek's jaw with it. "It's a blindfold," he says. "And I got earplugs. I thought—it might be, you know, interesting. I've never done anything like that before."

"Interesting," Derek says, neutral.

"Heighten your other senses," Stiles says. "Make stuff more intense."

A year and a half ago, Stiles was kidnapped by Victoria Argent's brother, blindfolded, and locked in a closet for two days. He came out shivering and dehydrated, and the pack rotated in and out of his bed for two weeks until Stiles kicked them out and locked the window. Derek doesn't know how he feels about the blindfold; he would never have thought of it, but he would never have thought of any of the things Stiles comes up with.

"Hey." Stiles taps Derek's arm. "I can't blindfold you when you're lying down."

Derek sits up and leans against Stiles's shoulder while Stiles ties the blindfold on. It's satin on one side, like the ribbon, but lined on the other where it passes over Derek's eyes. A little light trickles in where it gaps around his nose. "These are intended for humans," Stiles says, fussing with something in a plastic bag that crinkles between his fingers, "so while they're heavy-duty, I don't think they're going to be able to block out sound completely. Maybe put you down to human level, or a little lower, but that's something, right?" He touches Derek's shoulder. "Lie back down."

"Okay," Derek says. It comes out low on a long exhale; Derek didn't realize he was holding his breath until he wasn't anymore. He breathes in sharply. There's the comforting scent of his room, and Stiles, excited, nervous, a little aroused, and beneath that, the scent of new things that haven't taken on anyone's scent through use or exposure. 

"I'm going to put them in now," Stiles says, somewhere above him.

The earplugs are foam or something and it takes a minute for them to expand all the way. That's long enough for Derek to relax while the mattress shifts underneath him as Stiles gets up, for Derek to get lost in the safety of familiar sounds, Stiles pulling his t-shirt over his head, unbuckling his belt, undoing the zip on his jeans, until, abruptly, Derek can't hear anything at all.

The light goes out and the world is empty, soundless, sightless.

If Derek concentrates he can still hear—that Stiles is talking while something else jangles faintly in the background—but it's muffled, barely coherent. Derek can't place Stiles in the room, can't detect the way the hardwood echoes the passage of his bare feet or squeaks beneath the sneakers Lydia's always trying to get Stiles to leave by the front door. Derek couldn't hear the flip of the light switch. For werewolves, all five senses are heightened, but sound and scent are the strongest. When Derek breathes in through his nose he gets overwhelmed by the mingling of scents, the safe and known mixing with the unfamiliar, and he chokes on it. 

Stiles runs a finger along Derek's calf and Derek can't _hear_ him.

"Stop," Derek says. There's a word he's supposed to use, Stiles has drilled it into him, but Derek can't remember it right now. "Stop. I can't—"

Stiles's hand goes away, and the light goes back on, and a few seconds, an eternity later, Stiles's fingers are scrabbling at Derek's ears, undoing the blindfold. "Oh my god, oh my god, I didn't mean to—say something, please, you're—"

Derek sits up and wraps his arms around Stiles's waist, leans over into his lap, looking at the pink crease that Stiles's jeans have worn into his hip. His ear is against Stiles's chest and he can hear Stiles breathing in and out, too quickly. "Keep talking," Derek says.

"Is this okay?" Stiles carefully puts one arm over Derek's shoulders. "What do you—what did I do?"

"Like this is good," Derek says, relaxing against Stiles. His eyes are wet; he only notices when he brings a hand up to wipe at them. "Don't go away."

"I won't," Stiles says. "I wouldn't."

"Good," Derek says, closing his eyes.

—

They take a nap in Derek's bed, after Derek gets Stiles to open the windows and push away the curtains so Derek can listen to the woods and lie in the fading sunlight. Derek keeps his nose tucked into the curve of Stiles's neck and Stiles lets him, throws a leg over Derek's beneath the light quilt on the bed and makes worried noises when Derek tries to pull away after a while, so Derek stays put. Surprisingly enough, he falls asleep without trouble, listening to Stiles's heartbeat, and when he wakes up, Stiles is still there, awake. He gives Derek a long look when Derek lifts his head. Stiles smells unhappy.

"Are you okay?" Stiles says. "What do you want?"

What Derek wants most is Stiles, like this, smelling like him, holding him, but Derek's gotten out of the habit—was never in the habit—of asking for what he wants. It's irrelevant. If Derek were to make a list, where would he start? "I don't know," Derek says.

Stiles looks down at him, mouth tight. "Tell me the truth."

"Tea," Derek says, eventually; that's true enough.

Downstairs, Stiles rummages through the cabinet with all the hot drink stuff in it. "What kind of tea?"

There's chai that Laura used to like up there that Derek bought a year ago and has never touched. "The stuff in the canister." He stands back while Stiles gets out a packet of Swiss Miss with extra marshmallows for himself and digs around in the odds-and-ends drawer for the tea strainer.

"I'm sorry," Stiles says, measuring out the loose tea into the strainer with a spoon.

Derek's shoulders tense up. "No, I'm—" he says. "It's my—"

" _Don't._ " Stiles sits the spoon down on the counter. "I'm not psychic, I can't get into your head, and it's not like you tell me what you like, I'm always, just, you know, taking a stab in the dark here. I don't know what turns your crank and I—I clearly don't know what freaks you out, and—"

"I didn't know." Derek steps forward and touches Stiles's shoulder lightly. He's standing behind Stiles, now, looking at the curve of Stiles's neck and, behind it, the stove (electric, flat surface burners, Allison picked it out) and the little yellow kettle.

"No sensory dep play in your exotic, sexy werewolf past, huh?" Stiles says.

Derek doesn't say anything.

Stiles turns around. He's frowning, mouth turned down at the edges. "See, this is exactly what I'm talking about. I never know anything with you. I don't know what you want or what you like or even if you—"

"I like what you do," Derek says. "I like all of it."

"Not that." Stiles gestures upstairs emphatically.

Derek looks down, at Stiles's Adventure Time boxers and the pajama pants puddling around Derek's own feet. "I didn't know," he says again. 

"Yes, I've picked that up, very helpful, dude." Stiles crosses his arms.

This is the moment that Derek's been waiting for all this time. He feels strangely peaceful, looking at Stiles's hard face, the curves of his biceps, all the things he never gave himself permission to linger over. If Derek is going to lose whatever this thing is between them, he's going to look and not feel bad about it.

"I can't tell whether you think that Blue Steel is somehow going to distract me or if there's something on my face," Stiles says.

"Your face is fine," Derek says.

The kettle boils.

—

Derek sits in the window seat of the breakfast nook and Stiles takes the chair on his left, setting his overfilled mug down carefully on the table. The tea in Derek's mug smells like Laura, so that was probably not the best choice, but he drinks it anyway. It's dark and spicy and a little bitter because Derek forgot about the milk and honey. Laura always liked things sweeter than he did, so Derek's probably not missing that much.

"What did you do when other people tried to make you talk about your feelings?" Stiles pokes at the marshmallow layer of his hot chocolate.

"You mean Laura?" Derek says.

"No, I mean, _other people_. Like, people you were banging?"

"Kate didn't try to get me to talk about my feelings." She didn't have to try. Derek said more than enough on his own.

"Fuck, I'm not—" Stiles glares at him. "—is this conversation seriously happening? How? Did you just telegraph your availability to everyone else with your eyes? Is that how you somehow escaped anyone interrogating you about your deep emotional instability?"

"There wasn't anyone else," Derek says.

Stiles is quiet for a long moment before he says, "Wow, okay, I actually cannot deal with this," and leaves.

—

Once he's done with his tea, Derek gets up and loads the dishwasher, clearing out the dishes Isaac left in the sink last night. Stiles hasn't gone that far—he's still in the house somewhere, probably in the library that used to be Derek's father's before Stiles claimed it as an office—whatever that means. After Derek starts the dishwasher up, he goes back up to his room and climbs back into his bed with its comforting smells and soft sheets. He pulls the quilt up over his head after he grabs his phone off the nightstand and pulls it under with him. It's easier reading in bed than it was when he was a kid, flashlight tucked between shoulder and chin while he flipped through an Animorphs book or whatever he was into then. Derek hasn't thought about Animorphs in years. Stiles is probably too young to have read them.

The moon is waning, so Derek feels more relaxed than restless by the time it rises. Stiles comes back upstairs a little after. He knocks at Derek's door and says, "Can I come in?"

"Sure," Derek says.

"Okay." Stiles tip toes over, lifts up a corner of the quilt. "Can I come in here, too?"

"Yeah," Derek says, scooting over.

Stiles lies next to him, knees pressed up against Derek's and noses almost brushing; Derek has to sit his phone down between them because there's not enough room. He gets 30 seconds of Stiles closing his eyes, settling in, before the screen dims and Derek's night vision has to make up the difference.

"So, you never did any of that stuff before?" Stiles says after a minute. "None of it?"

"Not really." Most of the sex Derek had with Kate happened in her car or in her apartment, her on top of him, steady hands guiding him into her, teaching him how to pleasure her. None of that was about Derek, it wasn't anything like what Stiles—no.

"Jesus," Stiles says. "I would be smacking myself in the face right now but I'm pretty sure I would hit you."

"Noted."

"I just…" Stiles sighs. "I don't know, I guess—you just seemed experienced, you know? Like, who wouldn't do you? I don't even know what you're doing with me, I'm deeply confused, I gotta admit. You're kind of out of my league."

"I don't know what that means," Derek says.

"Normally people start off with, like, making out and jerking each other off and blowjobs with no teeth," Stiles says, like he's reciting items on a grocery list. "Before they move on to the mind-blowing kinky sex, I mean. Do you even—? Shit, have I—"

"I like it." Derek is getting frustrated. "I'm always telling you, I _like_ it. I didn't—what you did earlier—and I told you."

"You did." Stiles reaches over and puts one hand on Derek's side, just below his ribs. Derek doesn't know what that means. "Can you—will you tell me what else you like?"

"I like doing—stuff you like," Derek says, and when Stiles huffs, he adds, "Because you like it."

"Here's what I'd like," Stiles says. He leans in until his mouth is just over Derek's ear, and says, "I want you to tell me what you _want_ , not just what you think I want. If that's okay with you."

It's dark under the covers: Derek can still see some, but for Stiles, the darkness has to be like a blindfold. Derek couldn't do that, but he can do this, now. "Yeah," he says. "That's okay with me."

—

Starting out is the hardest part. Derek can see why Stiles always seems to have a plan or some kind of accessory, some reason other than _because I wanted to, because I wanted you_. Derek doesn't have a plan or a map, but he does have Stiles here, listening, pressed up against him. He wants that. Yeah.

"I like you being here," Derek says. "I like it when you smell like—the house. You make the house happy."

"I make the house _magic_ ," Stiles says, dismissive. "I'm just the Energizer Bunny."

Derek clears his throat. "I'm talking."

"Right."

"I like it when you—" Derek pauses, starts, stops, starts again. "I like you, doing things to me, telling me what you want. You always—you know what you're doing, you're good at it."

"I'm just making shit up as I go along, I always—" Stiles stops when Derek presses a finger to his lips.

"You always say that," Derek says. "I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. Ever. But you're always—you know what to do, you figure stuff out. Generally. It's—I like that you do that."

"Even though you fight with me about it all the time," Stiles mumbles against Derek's finger.

"Sometimes you're _wrong_ ," Derek points out. Stiles has been wrong about several things in the last week alone: what the pack would think about adopting a guinea pig, where the best place was for Boyd's grandma's piano, what time the drive-through window at Arby's closed. There's a difference between Derek's bed and the rest of the world. "Just—not with me, like this."

"In bed?" Stiles prompts.

Derek puts his palm over Stiles's mouth because one finger is not doing the job. "I like it when you fuck me. I never did that before, not even—but you're good at it, and you—it's good." He's blushing, but Stiles can't see that. "I like it when you—when you tell me, I like listening to you talk, I don't know why, you never shut up, I just—"

Stiles's lips move against Derek's palm.

"I wish I didn't find that hot," Derek says.

"I'm going to come soon." Stiles's voice is audible now, albeit muffled. "Just—just so you know. If you keep—"

Derek pushes his thigh in between Stiles's legs and, yeah, he can feel Stiles brushing up against him, and Derek's hard, too, and he barely noticed. "Tell me what to do, tell me what you want," he says to Stiles, pulling his hand away. "That's what I want."

"I want to fuck you," Stiles says immediately. "Oh my god, Derek, oh my god, just don't—stop talking."

"I'll—I'll do it, I'll keep—I like it." Derek lifts his hips, pushing into Stiles even as Stiles is pulling away, going in search of the lube and condoms. Unlike reading, lube in the dark under the covers can get messy; Derek resigns himself to swapping out the sheets before bed or going to sleep in at least one puddle. That's okay, though, because Stiles is already back, tugging down Derek's pants as Derek rolls onto his back. 

"Ugh, this is all over my _arm_." Stiles nudges Derek's thighs apart with his knee.

"Don't put the whole thing in," Derek says. "I don't think I'll like that."

Stiles groans. "Don't do that when I can't even see your face, oh my God, you're ridiculous." 

"You're ridiculous," Derek says.

"I move to table this argument for later," Stiles says. "I want to put my fingers in your ass while I suck you off first if—"

"Do it." Derek reaches up to clutch at Stiles's arm.

"Well, if you insist," Stiles says.

—

Derek wakes up in the morning wrapped up in sticky sheets and Stiles, who is curled around Derek's back and has thrown one arm over Derek's chest like he's afraid Derek is going to flee into the night. Everything smells like come and lube and satisfaction, and Stiles has drooled a little on Derek's shoulder.

"Sorry, I'm gross." Stiles rubs his nose against the nape of Derek's neck.

"You are." Derek tries to pull away, but he doesn't get very far.

"I think you're literally stuck with me," Stiles says, plucking at the sheets and sighing.

"Worse things have happened," Derek says.

—

Erica names the guinea pig Renesmee.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
